


Breaking and Entering

by thatmasquedgirl



Series: Monsters in the Mirror [9]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: (I said deathstroke!Felicity), (It's deathstroke!Felicity), (enough said), (not the episode tho), (see Deathstroke!Felicity for details), (yes you read that right) - Freeform, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Felicity Smoak, Dark, Dark Comedy, Deathstroke!Felicity, F/M, Felicity Smoak Has PTSD, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Heavy Angst, Home Invasion, Humor, Inappropriate Humor, Knives, Know what else is always here?, Mentions of Felicity's backstory, Oliver Queen/Felicity Smoak Angst, One Shot, POV Felicity Smoak, POV Outsider, POV Quentin Lance, Past Abuse, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prompt Fill, Protective Oliver, Roy is not in this one, Self-Defense, This is Monsters and he is always here, Tumblr Prompt, WHY IS THERE ALWAYS ANGST IN THIS SHIP IN THIS UNIVERSE, but his presence is felt, vigilante!Felicity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-30 21:30:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11472063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatmasquedgirl/pseuds/thatmasquedgirl
Summary: Felicity has a late-night visitor.  Unfortunately, it isn't Oliver this time.Another Monsters fic, this time with more angst, knives, and hugs.Written for TheBookJumper's Olicity Hiatus Fic-A-Thon.  Prompt:  comfort.





	Breaking and Entering

**Author's Note:**

> ...I think we all have to admit we need more of at least _two_ of those things in the summary. ;)
> 
>  **A few quick notes about this fic:**  
>  **1\. Trigger warning.** There is a section in here where Felicity implies an attempted sexual assault. However, I want to assure you all that I will _never_ write crimes that horrific against any of my characters. I just want to warn you so that, if such things trigger you, you can stay safe.  
>  **2\. Fic ordering.** As usual, I'm all out-of-order with Monsters. There are a few fics between "Well-Oiled Machine" and this one, so there are probably going to be some plot twists you don't expect. I promise to make myself clear eventually. ;)
> 
> Beyond that, I'm really excited about this because this fic is kind of different from the rest of the Monsters series. Usually I have episode tags to guide me, but this one is just kind of an idea that popped up in my head and wouldn't let go. So it's definitely non-traditional Monsters, but I think it fits in all the same.
> 
> As always, I love to hear your thoughts (even though I'm way behind in answering them; "Uncharted Territory" took off like wildfire--THANK Y'ALL SO MUCH), but I'm just thrilled if you take the time to read this. :) Thank you!
> 
> 09-28-17 Update: Added the beautiful artwork by actualyssa. :)  
> 11-21-17 Update: Fixed a bit of wording to match up with the next installment of Monsters. I had a mild change in plans.

  
 

 

* * *

 

The thunderclap causes Felicity to sit upright in her bed, eyes wide and alert as she reaches for her glasses on the nightstand.  “Not again,” she groans to herself after a muffled curse.  For the last week, rainstorms have abounded, and she's sick to damn death of waking up every time the thunder breaks through her already tenuous hold on sleep.  At this rate, she's going to crash soon—hopefully at work and not in her car.

Her skin pebbles with goosebumps as the blanket slips down, exposing her bare arms.  A cold front must have moved in during the night—it's freezing in the house.  More importantly, it's freezing in her bed.  God, she misses Oliver; he's like a personal furnace at night, and he doesn't mind any snuggling.  (For warmth, that is—not that Felicity snuggles for other reasons.)  But of course his mother _had_ to pick this week to grow suspicious about his disappearing act and he _had_ to stay the night at the mansion.   Combined with Roy picking up some extra cash by bartending at Verdant, she's utterly alone in the house.

It sucks.

There's another crash, but it sounds nothing like the first.  A moment later, Felicity realizes that there wasn’t a streak of light to accompany the sound.  Instead, it’s just the steady sound of rain falling on her tin roof.  Frowning, Felicity slides her glasses on her face, muscles tensing as the hairs on the back of her neck stand at attention.  A groan comes next, and she reaches for the knife under her pillow and the phone on her bedside table.  Unable to stop herself, she laughs at the poor sap who decided breaking into her house was a good idea; he has to be the unluckiest fool in the world.

She rises to her feet, tiptoeing across the wooden floor to the hallway.  If she were in her Deathstroke gear, the answer would be simple enough:  she'd just dispatch him and be done with it.  But this is her home, so she'll have to report bodies magically appearing in the den and she doesn’t trust herself to dispose of a body without forensics interfering.  (It would be her first time, and her first-time experiences are always a disaster.)  Instead, Felicity decides she'd rather give him the chance to run first; the last thing she needs is the police snooping around her safe, not knowing the Vengeance of Starling's swords lie just beyond.

Lightning strikes through the sky, illuminating her den for just long enough.  Shards of glass on the floor in front of her window catch the short burst of light, and a hulking man who probably hasn’t seen a bathtub in the last week rattles around her house like Marley’s ghost in _A Christmas Carol_.  Felicity’s eyes narrow at him, assessing.

After a moment, Felicity quietly steps forward to catch a better glimpse of her intruder.  Hair falls in front of his face as he rummages through her box of computer parts with shaking hands, snuffling.  He's coming down from a high, she supposes, looking for his next fix of whatever he can find. It's a shame he picked one of the few houses in the Glades that doesn't host drugs.  Well, come to think of it, Felicity remembers there's morphine in her medicine cabinet, along with a few other controlled drugs she really shouldn't have.  Maybe he _is_ in the right house.

Leaning against the edge of the wall, Felicity calls to him, “I think you're a little confused about where your home is.”  He drops one of her hard drives, and she winces; she _really_ hopes that isn't the expensive one that Oliver was going to just _throw out_ when it stopped working, instead of letting her repair it.  “This would be mine, not yours.”  She holds up her cell phone.  Whether a threat or an olive branch, she doesn’t know, but whatever works.  “I can call the police and tell them I woke up to an empty house with a broken window, _or_ I can call them now if you don't leave.  Your choice.”

He takes a step toward her and she tenses before pulling out her backup option.  “I also have a knife,” she calls out to him, waving it as proof.  _Carrot and stick_ , Slade always said.  _Offer them the carrot, but don’t be afraid to use a stick on any rented mule who gets too close_ _._  “Unless you want to know what it feels like in your throat, I suggest you stay where you are.”

“I just want s-s-some,” he stutters at her, taking a few steps forward.  “Please.”

“I don't have anything for you to get high on,” she says to him, bracing to defend herself.  On her list of criminal confrontations, this one definitely makes the _didn’t go well_ list.  Maybe even the hall of fame.  “Now get your ass out before I call the cops.”

“You have some,” he accuses.  Louder, “ _You have some!_ ”

Felicity is too tired to deal with this level of bullshit. She starts pressing the buttons on her phone, deciding she'll deal with the consequences later.  Her first aid kit—including all of her Class II drugs—can go in the safe while the police are responding.  After all, she should be able to get to them in time.  Police response times in the Glades aren’t as good as they used to be; Felicity can get a pizza delivered from Starling Heights faster than the police will show up.

She barely hears the _Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?_ over the roar her intruder lets out.  Though she's perfectly capable of dispatching him, Felicity backs up a couple of steps anyway.  For the standard legal reasons, she calls out, “Stay away from me!”  Into the phone, she adds in a tone meant to be frantic, “Home invasion at eleven-oh-seven Ocean Avenue.”

He makes a run at her, faster than she expects him to move.  When she plunges the knife into his stomach, the man screams, making her wish she had gone for his throat instead.  She follows it with a punch to the jaw before he shoves her against the wall with his hand around her neck.  As she pulls the knife free of him, Felicity drives it between his ribs this time, hoping to deflate a lung—to weaken him instead of kill him.  She reminds herself that she’s supposed to be fighting like a civilian:  wild swings, awkward stabs, and non-vital organs.

It kind of takes the fun out of the fight.

The intruder staggers back from her as she attempts to regain her breath, but he manages to catch her by surprise with a punch to the face.  As she’s watching stars float in her vision, he lunges again.  When the man close to three times her size dives for her, they both go down and he pins her to the floor.  Suddenly Suddenly, Felicity is no longer in her house, but in a shipping container in Japan, when one of her captors decided to use his larger weight to hold her in place.  She can't breathe, remembering her attacker's hot panting and the stink of cheap _sake_ on his breath, laughing as he broke her arm.  Only this time, Slade isn't coming in to run them off.

And this time, Felicity intends to fight back.

Shaking off the sudden flood of memories, she reaches for the knife as he tries to cut off her air supply again.  Her head catches him in the throat before he can get a good hold on her, causing him to lean back just enough to yell in frustration.  The target presented to her is unmistakable, and she seizes the opportunity to shove the hunting knife into his throat, promptly sliding it free.

She definitely should have done that the _first_ time she had the chance.

It makes a sickly sound on the way out, and she's sprayed with hot liquid.  Blood.  The man collapses on top of her, and she can't help but make a low, keening sound as she shoves his heavy body off her.  He rolls to the side, and she scurries back as fast as she can.  Despite all her training and experience, suddenly she feels like a little girl who just battled the bogeyman in her closet.

Scrambling away from the newly created corpse, Felicity rests her back against the door facing, trying to catch her breath.  A clicking sound catches her attention, and she realizes her too-long fingernails are shaking on the tile.  Huh, that’s new:  her hands are shaking.  No, not her hands— _all_ of her.  She feels as though she's vibrating as she pulls her knees up to her chest and rests her forehead upon them.  She has no idea how long she stays like that, but she's finally still when her phone goes off.

Desperate for something to do, she crawls back to her phone, doing her best to avoid looking at the body for fear it will bring back more memories of Japan—the _last_ thing she needs.  She breathes a sigh of relief when she sees who it's from.  Thank God it isn't her mother.  In his text, Oliver asks, _Are you still awake?_

Felicity glances at the body before answering, _I don't think I'll be sleeping any time soon._

It’s barely five seconds later that her phone goes off again, this time buzzing in lazy circles on the floor as Oliver’s picture comes up.  Felicity answers it and puts it on speaker, too exhausted to hold the device up to her ear.  She wishes her voice is stronger as she answers, “Hey, Oliver.”  Instead, it shakes and sounds small.

“What’s wrong?” he demands instantly.

After a long assessment of her hallway, Felicity finally answers, “A guy kind of broke into my house.”  When she runs a hand through her hair, it comes back wet.  At first she thinks the roof might be leaking again, but then she decides it’s perspiration.  Frowning, she stares at her hands again.  Fantastic—the shaking is back.

“Is Roy okay?”  Are you hurt?” Oliver immediately fires back, and a part of her takes the time to appreciate that he’s less confident in Roy’s well-being than her own.  She’ll thank him for that vote of confidence later.  Static rushes in the background, followed by the creak of a bed.  “I’m on my way to you—I should be there in twenty minutes.”

“You don’t have to come,” she assures him, though she’d be lying if she said she didn’t want him there.  Felicity isn’t sure she’s ever felt so alone in her life—even in Japan.  Something about the darkness makes it all creep in.  “Roy’s at work, so he’s fine.  I’m a little banged up, but…”  The chuckle she forces out falls flat.  “You should see the other guy.”  Frowning, she crawls over to lift her intruder’s arm by the sleeve of his jacket.  When she releases it, his hand thumps against the floor.  “He might be a little dead.”

Her answer is a grunt-like noise from her partner in crime, which she thinks might be Oliver-speak for _duh_.  “Have you called the police, Felicity?”  Almost as an afterthought, he adds between the rustling of clothes, “I don’t know much about forensics or dumping a body.”

While Felicity is flattered he’d help her hide a murder without asking any questions, it’s not exactly a skill in her wheelhouse, either.  “I’ve never hidden a body before, and I don’t want this to be my first time,” she replies.  “All of my first-time things have been disappointing and colossal failures.”  All she can hear for a moment is silence.  “Get your mind out of the gutter, Oliver,” she demands when her words catch up to her.  “Not _that_ kind of first time, though it certainly wasn’t an exception.  The guy needed a serious lesson in anatomy.  Not to mention—”

“Felicity, did you call the police?” Oliver tries again, his voice an octave lower and raspy around the edges.

Even though he can’t see her, she nods.  “Yeah, I called the cops, even though it goes against everything I believe in.”  Her eyes travel across the corpse again, and this time she crawls all the way into her room, closing the door and resting her back against it.  “Oliver?”  Felicity mutters a curse in Mandarin at how small her voice sounds.  “Can you just… talk to me?  Remind me I’m not in Japan anymore?”  She swallows.  “Please?”

“Felicity, it’s 2012 and you’re not in Japan,” he answers without missing a beat, in that firm voice he uses to tell her important things.  Though she already knew that, Felicity sighs in relief anyway.  Somehow hearing Oliver say it helps.  “I’m going to ask you a few things, okay?”  His tone is gentle.  Another time, she would wonder if he was treating her like she was fragile, but right now she is and she _desperately_ needs someone to recognize that.

“Sure.  Fire away, arrow boy.”  It pulls a laugh out of him, which makes her smile.  It’s a shame that someone with such a lovely laugh rarely gets to use it.  It’s such a good laugh.  Somehow that thought slips through her lips as, “I wish you had more to laugh about.”

“I was just thinking the same thing,” he answers immediately, in that voice that makes her feel strangely float-y.  His tone is gone just as quickly as it appears.  “Are your swords in the safe?”

The words force her into action.  Sighing, Felicity rises to her unsteady feet.  At least now the shaking has stopped.  Her whetstone is on the nightstand, but she moves to the closet and pulls back the secret partition.  One long-ass numeric sequence later, it opens.  Her swords are carefully packed against a back wall, as is her drug stash.  “They’re here,” she assures him.  “My medical supplies are, too.  I think I did that after I had to patch you up the last time.”

After sealing and hiding the vault, Felicity finally confesses in a small voice, “He… he fell on top of me, Oliver.  When I killed him, I mean.”  Even now she shudders.  “It reminded me of Japan.”  Oliver is eerily quiet on the other end of the line.  “Slade pulled him off me before…”  She doesn’t even want to think about what could have happened _after_.  “I can still smell the cheap _sake_ on his breath sometimes.”  Her laugh is bitter.  “I haven’t been able to drink in a bar that serves it ever since.”

Felicity waits for a meaningless apology that never comes.  Instead, Oliver confesses to her in a low voice, “Sometimes I wake up and I think I’m still on the island.  Or in Russia.  Or in Hong Kong.”  She can almost imagine him swallowing hard, shoulders sagging under the weight of his confession.  “I can’t get near a boat without hyperventilating.  I was tracking a target near the harbor and I had to give up the mission because my hands were shaking.”

Sirens pick up in the distance, and she jumps.  “I think the police are finally arriving,” she whispers.  “I guess I have to go.”  Felicity tries to keep the disappointment out of her voice, but she doesn’t quite succeed.  “I’ll talk to you later?”

Oliver offers her a promise:  “Twenty minutes.  I’ll be there.”

 

* * *

 

Quentin Lance flashes his badge at the officer at the open doorway before staring at the door on the ground with trepidation. He heard the dispatch on the way home from work and his blood went cold: home invasion, assault, and murder, the victim named as Felicity Smoak.  He hopes that isn't the case; she's a sweet girl, and he knows Donna will be devastated if anything happens to her daughter.

Lance breathes a sigh of relief when he sees her standing in the living room in pink pajama pants, covered in brightly-colored sock monkeys.  Both them and her blue tank top are splattered with blood, as is her face, but she doesn't seem to mind.  Instead, her arms are crossed over her torso as if trying to hold herself together, hands balled into fists.  Her throat is covered in dark bruises in the shape of fingerprints, and she's most certainly going to have a black eye.

But she's alive, at least. That's something.

The detective on the scene is a familiar face:  young and bright-eyed, even at this hour when the first touches of dawn are gracing the sky.  Though he doesn’t understand why McKenna Hall is the detective called to investigate, he makes a beeline for her anyway.  She turns to him with a furrow in her brow, probably just as confused by Lance's presence as he is by hers.  “What's Major Crimes doing on my crime scene?” she asks him, straight to the chase as always.

“I'm not official,” Lance assures her.  He nods toward Felicity, and Hall glances between them. “I'm seeing her mother.  When I heard the name on the radio, I thought I'd check in.” He motions around the room. “What the hell happened?”

Hall frowns. “We haven't taken her statement yet, but looks like the guy broke in and started going through her stuff.” She nods to Felicity. “Judging by the bruises, he came at her and they struggled.” Nodding to the body on the floor, the detective adds unnecessarily, “He lost.  She had a seven-inch hunting knife—or maybe she managed to take it from him.  Whatever the case, she stabbed him in the stomach and the left lung at some point, ending with a thrust through the left carotid artery. That was the killing blow. Coroner put the cause of death as exsanguination.”

Lance's eyebrows go up as he looks at Felicity again, and he finds it hard to believe that five-five, maybe-a-buck-twenty-sopping-wet, sweet Felicity took down the behemoth of a man on the floor on her own. But judging by the way she seems to be hugging herself and pacing, she can't quite believe that, either.

“That's why I'm here,” Hall continues.  “The boys wanted to have a woman on scene, to make her more comfortable, and I was the closest one to the scene on duty.”  McKenna studies the blonde with something that looks like approval as an officer walks up to her and starts to take a statement.  Lance tries to suppress a smile; his fellow detective doesn’t exactly give her respect away.  “I don't think they needed me.  She's holding up pretty well for someone who just committed murder in self-defense.”  Something about that statement causes her brow to furrow.  “In fact, it's a little creepy how calm she is.”

“Don't touch me!” the woman in question suddenly yells at the officer, who quickly pulls back the hand he meant to put on her shoulder in a poor attempt at comfort.  Not as calm as they thought, Lance decides, taking a few steps toward her.  “Sorry,” Felicity immediately adds, looking uncomfortable.  “I just… it's been a trying night.”

Lance waves the officer away before turning to her.  While he doesn't know Felicity all that well, he feels it's enough to ask, “You okay, kiddo?”  It isn’t the question she needs right now—because _of course_ she isn't okay—but it's the first thing that comes to mind.  Belatedly, he adds, “Do you need me to call anyone?  Roy? Donna, maybe?”

“No!” she snaps in a loud voice.  When he flinches in surprise, she finds something interesting about her toes.  “I mean, no, don't call my mom.” Felicity waves a hand, and he realizes it's shaking.  Maybe she isn't holding it together as well as she appears. “You know how Mom is—she panics over everything.  I… I can’t do that right now.  And Roy crashed at his friend's last night. I'll talk to him later.”  She shakes her head as if trying to clear it. “I called someone, though.” She looks around at the flurry of forensic techs. “Can someone just take my statement so I can get the hell out of here?”

“I can get McKenna, and she can—” he starts, but Felicity isn't in the mood to let him finish.

“Don't,” she nearly growls, her tone biting.  Her eyes narrow—well, the eye that isn’t swollen, anyway—and it makes her look like an entirely different person.  Suddenly Deathstroke’s words from two months ago come flooding back to him:  _It’s not the size of the dog in the fight, Detective.  It’s the size of the fight in the dog_.  “I don’t need you to coddle me, Mr. Lance.”  If her tone was ice, Hell would be frozen over.  “I’m not the victim here.”  She dismisses the body with a wave of her hand. 

“I'm pretty sure the guy painting my floors red is the victim in all of this.” Something about the cavalier way she says it strikes a familiar chord at the back of his mind, and it renders him speechless. “So can I just talk to you and get this done?”

At his nod, Felicity starts in at lightning speed, “A crash woke me up, so I put on my glasses, grabbed my phone, and picked up the knife I keep for self-defense.”  The statement surprises him, but she shrugs.  “One can never be too careful, and I don’t like guns.”  She waves a hand.  “I called nine-one-one, and he heard me.  I ran in here, and he came at me, so I stabbed him.  He tried to choke me, so I stabbed him again.  That's when he punched me.”

She releases a deep, shaky sigh, and her voice quavers a little when she speaks next.  “He knocked me to the ground, and he crawled over the top of me.  I… I panicked.  Stabbed him in the throat, I think.”  There's a long pause before she whispers, mostly to herself, “All I could think about was the blood.  It reminded me of when my fath—”

Trailing off, Felicity glances behind him, and Lance turns to follow it. Immediately, he scowls at the sight of Oliver Queen in the doorway.  What’s more annoying is that he half-expected it.  Between her friendship with the Merlyn kid and that time Lance stumbled across the two of them at his favorite Chinese place, he’s come to the grudging conclusion that they’re thick as thieves.  That doesn’t mean he has to _like_ seeing a good girl with a troublemaker like Queen.

Lance has been down that road before, and it ended with one dead daughter and another with a broken heart.

Though he's careful to mind the evidence scattered around, the Queen kid's eyes zero in on the blonde and don't leave her.  Ignoring both Lance and a wide-eyed McKenna, he goes straight for Felicity.  She offers him a smile that couldn’t convince a blind man.  Queen answers it with a sigh before wrapping his arms around the girl.  She returns it instantly, clinging to him like a lifeline.  Their eyes close at the same time, and Oliver drops his head to her shoulder with a relieved sigh.

With her back to him, Lance spots the outline of a tattoo across her shoulders—probably the one her mother is so distraught about. It's not what he expects, the wings painted with black feathers and blood. For not the first time, he thinks she has a past no one really wants to talk about.

It takes Lance a moment to realize that Felicity isn't the only one shaking:  Queen looks equal parts grim and relieved as he pulls away.  He brushes the hair out of her face, expression turning dark as he takes in the new bruises on her face and neck.  When he glances over to the body covered in a sheet, his jaw tenses.  Lance refrains from telling him that he can’t kill the guy a second time.  “How badly are you hurt?” he asks her, fingers dusting over the bruises on her throat.

Kicking himself, Lance admits it's a far better question than his _are you okay?_ Of course she isn't okay; no one would be after something like that.  And asking _are you hurt?_ is just as stupid when the evidence is right in front of them.

For the spoiled billionaire and him alone, Felicity lifts one corner of her mouth. “Just a few bruises,” she assures him, “and a near-death experience.” She waves a hand, and it takes Lance a moment to realize she's putting on a brave face for her friend. “Just the usual.  I've been through worse.”

Judging by the way Queen's eyes dart to her shaking hands, he isn't buying it, either.  “I know you have,” he answers, and it doesn't seem as though he's humoring her.  Interesting.  Lance files that away for later.  “I know you're brave, too, but that doesn't make this any easier.”  His hand goes to her arm.  “How are you _really_ doing?”

After a moment of hesitation, Felicity admits, “Freaking out a little.  Which is ridiculous because I'm actually _shaking_.”  She holds up her hands as proof—as if the kid hasn't already noticed.  “I didn't even do this after _Japan_ , Oliver.”  Lance frowns; the words might as well be nonsense to him, but Queen only reaches for her hand.  Felicity takes it, threading her fingers through his without seeming to notice.  “I just… I need to get out of here for a while.”

He nods as though she's given him an order, acknowledging the detective's presence for the first time. “Can she go change clothes, clean up, and pack a bag, Detective?” Queen asks.  Before Lance can go check the layout of the house to make sure it wouldn't contaminate the forensics, the kid waves a hand.  “The bedroom and bathroom are down the hallway.  There shouldn't be any evidence to contaminate through there.”  He motions toward Felicity.  “And she's still covered in _blood_.”

“We have to collect the clothes as evidence,” McKenna answers as she joins them.  Queen blinks at her as if he hadn’t even noticed her presence.  Lance snorts; the kid probably would if he had eyes for anyone but Felicity.  “We’ve already cleared the bedroom, so you’ll be able to change in there and pack some clothes to take with you.”  Hall glances to the kid before meeting Felicity’s eyes again.  “It’s not really standard procedure, but if you want to change out of your clothes, I don’t see any problem with Oliver staying with you.”

When she pats his arm, Queen tenses visibly.  Felicity follows suit a heartbeat later.  Lance is starting to think he underestimated just how close these two are.  “Despite the circumstances, it’s good to see you again, Ollie.”  The blonde rolls her eyes at the old nickname, and Lance puts two and two together to make four:  Hall’s an old flame.  Of course she is.

Placing a hand on her hip, Felicity states with a huff, “Oliver is not my security blanket.  He’s my friend.  I have managed twenty-four years of my life without needing him, and I’m pretty sure I can pack a bag without his help.”  Despite the harsh words, Queen only grins.  “I can do this on my own.”  Lance glances down at their hands and finds them still joined.  Good speech, but it’d probably be more convincing if she wasn’t holding on to him like a lifeline.

“What do you need me to do?” Oliver asks of her.

Finally she pulls her hand from his, patting his chest.  “Wait here.”  A moment later, she makes a face.  “That sounded like a command, but it was more of a question.  Do you care to stay here for a minute while I…?”  She points down the hall.

“I’m not going anywhere,” is his answer.  It manages to come out like a promise.

Lance stares after the blonde for a long moment, watching her lead McKenna down the hallway.  He isn’t surprised when he turns to find Queen doing the same.  Still, it doesn’t mean the detective has to _like_ it.  Experience has taught him that Oliver Queen is nothing but trouble, and he doesn’t want Felicity to learn the same lesson that Laurel did all those years ago.

“She’s a good kid,” he growls at Queen.  It comes out more threat than warning, but Lance just considers that a bonus.

Only then does the kid meet his eyes.  “I know that,” Queen replies, as if being told the grass is green.

Ignoring him as though he hasn’t spoken, Lance adds, “She deserves better than _you_.”

The answer comes on the heels of his words:  “She does.”  The detective’s eyes narrow at Queen, but the kid only shrugs.  That familiar sarcastic expression Lance expects is replaced with burning sincerity.  Maybe there _is_ a first time for everything.  Carefully, Oliver adds, “But I think we both know Felicity makes her own choices.”  Only then does that sardonic smile come out to play.  “Despite what anyone else thinks she deserves.”

“If you hurt her—” Lance starts to warn.

“I’ll have to answer to Felicity,” Queen finishes.  Gone is the kid that used to be afraid of Lance’s glare; instead, he seems to have developed one of his own.  It softens—but only for a moment.  “While I appreciate you trying to protect her, Detective, Felicity doesn’t need your protection.”  The corner of his mouth barely lifts.  “And I’m more afraid of her.”

Lance can’t think of a suitable response to that.

A few minutes later, the two women walk up to them, Felicity with a bag over her shoulder.  Other than the black eye and the bruises around her throat, she looks as together as ever.  She looks more like the Felicity that Lance has come to know, in jeans and a black leather jacket.  Underneath it is a dark t-shirt with a picture of a cartoon cactus that reads, _Cute but prickly_.

Her lips, now painted bright pink, pull up in a smile.  “I think I feel like me again,” Felicity declares.  Her mouth suddenly turns in a frown as she glances behind her, to where Hall puts the set of clothes with other evidence.  “Except I really loved those pajamas.”

“You can always get another pair,” Oliver reminds her.  Lance does not miss the implication that her life isn’t so easily replaceable.

Rolling her eyes, the blonde only answers, “It’s not the same, Oliver.”  Eyes darting over to the body again, she asks, “Can we… just get out of here?”  Felicity shrugs a shoulder.  “I don’t care where.  Just… _away_.”  Queen’s answer is a firm nod, holding up his keys in a silent offer.

Felicity turns to walk away, but turns on her heel after two steps.  Lance is surprised when she places a hand on his arm.  “Thank you, Mr. Lance,” she says with wide eyes.  When his brow furrows, she adds, “For checking on me.  I appreciate it.”

He shifts his weight a little before grumbling at the wall, “Take care of yourself, kiddo.”

Her smile is hard enough to cut through rock when she replies, “I always do.”

**Author's Note:**

> **If you'd like to look at some of the inspirations for clothing and phrases in this fic, you can check out my "Monsters in the Mirror" Pinterest board[here](https://www.pinterest.com/thatmasquedgirl/monsters-in-the-mirror).**
> 
>  
> 
>  **If you're interested delving further into Monsters...** you can check out the mood board I made on Pinterest [here](https://www.pinterest.com/thatmasquedgirl/mood-board-monsters-in-the-mirror).


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